Picking a living in our sheaves,
      And happy in their loves,
    Near, ’mid a peepul’s quivering leaves,
      There lived a pair of doves.

    Never were they two separate,
      And lo, in idle mood,
    I took a sling and ball, elate
      In wicked sport and rude—­

    And killed one bird—­it was the male,
      Oh cruel deed and base! 
    The female gave a plaintive wail
      And looked me in the face!

    The wail and sad reproachful look
      In plain words seemed to say,
    A widowed life I cannot brook,
      The forfeit thou must pay.

    What was my darling’s crime that thou
      Him wantonly shouldst kill? 
    The curse of blood is on thee now,
      Blood calls for red blood still.

    And so I die—­a bloody death—­
      But not for this I mourn,
    To feel the world pass with my breath
      I gladly could have borne,

    But for my parents, who are blind,
      And have no other stay—­
    This, this, weighs sore upon my mind,
      And fills me with dismay.

    Upon the eleventh day of the moon
      They keep a rigorous fast,
    All yesterday they fasted; soon
      For water and repast

    They shall upon me feebly call! 
      Ah, must they call in vain? 
    Bear thou the pitcher, friend—­’tis all
      I ask—­down that steep lane.”

    He pointed—­ceased—­then sudden died! 
      The king took up the corpse,
    And with the pitcher slowly hied,
      Attended by Remorse,

    Down the steep lane—­unto the hut
      Girt round with Bela-trees;
    Gleamed far a light—­the door not shut
      Was open to the breeze.

PART III

    “Oh why does not our child return? 
      Too long he surely stays.”—­
    Thus to the Muni, blind and stern,
      His partner gently says.

    “For fruits and water when he goes
      He never stays so long,
    Oh can it be, beset by foes,
      He suffers cruel wrong?

    Some distance he has gone, I fear,
      A more circuitous round—­
    Yet why should he?  The fruits are near,
      The river near our bound.

    I die of thirst—­it matters not
      If Sindhu be but safe,
    What if he leave us, and this spot,
      Poor birds in cages chafe.

    Peevish and fretful oft we are—­
      Ah, no—­that cannot be: 
    Of our blind eyes he is the star,
      Without him, what were we?

    Too much he loves us to forsake,
      But something ominous,
    Here in my heart, a dreadful ache,
      Says, he is gone from us.

    Why do my bowels for him yearn,
      What ill has crossed his path? 
    Blind, helpless, whither shall we turn,
      Or how avert the wrath?